


Trusting In An Ancient Thing

by mirvly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Stargazing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, aziraphale just wants to cuddle!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirvly/pseuds/mirvly
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley stargaze in the Scottish highlands.





	Trusting In An Ancient Thing

**Author's Note:**

> So I may have decided to combine all of my interests (these two idiots, the Scottish highlands, and ✨ outer space ✨) and write some fluff. I was really fascinated by the idea of Crowley creating nebulas and stars so I rolled with that. I don’t usually write in present tense but then this happened and it’s a mess but then again so am I. 
> 
> The title comes from the song “Mothers and Fathers” by Dom Fera.

They’re lying on a tartan blanket in the middle of the Scottish highlands, surrounded by rolling hills and bordered by an inky black loch. It’s a warm summer night, and little pinpricks of starlight dance across the water. 

But they aren’t looking at the water. Crowley is on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head, staring at the dark sky without his sunglasses on for once. Not one foot away (at a respectable but close distance), Aziraphale also stares up at the stars, a peaceful smile on his face, his hands folded on his chest, completely at peace with the universe.

The night sky is clear out here, away from light pollution, not obscured by skyscrapers. The waxing moon is just a crescent in the sky, shimmering near the peak of a mountain. They’ve been laying in silence for quite some time. Often, Crowley will glance over to Aziraphale, just to remind himself he’s there. That he’s really, truly, there. It’s only them.

It’s not that things have been strange since Armageddon. They’ve been wonderful. Crowley has all the time in the world. Hell and Heaven are off their backs. No secret meetings or rendezvous at coded places. They can go to all the restaurants and coffee shops and museums and galleries they want. Together.

Nothing has changed between them, really, except for, well, everything. The sudden lack of responsibility was jarring for both of them, and Crowley is still getting used to the experience of just  _ existing.  _ Aziraphale is positively relishing in it, now that he has time to go searching for rare books, repairing the bindings on old ones, and all sorts of other book-related things that Crowley doesn’t really get but enjoys hearing Aziraphale talk about. There has been an increase in volume of books at the shop, and Crowley can barely move through the space anymore. (Sometimes, for the sake of ease, he will turn into his snake form in order to navigate easier. It scares off the customers, too, which Aziraphale scolds him for but is secretly appreciative of.)

But there is still the lingering question of…  _ what now? _

They had taken to travelling. Scotland isn’t that far from London, demonically and angelically speaking, and the last time Crowley had been to the highlands was several centuries ago. It’s much less interesting without the clans, he thinks to himself. Plenty of tempting to do in the 15th century between clans, before the Jacobites had to go and cock it up.

Aziraphale had almost insisted on wearing a kilt when they arrived in Edinburgh, but Crowley talked him down, reminding him that this is the twenty first century, for Hell’s sake, and nobody just casually wears kilts in the street anymore. 

(When they saw a bagpiper piping on the Royal Mile, wearing a kilt and surrounded by enthralled tourists, Aziraphale had given him the most smug smile, and Crowley was reminded just how much of a bastard the angel really was.)

“It’s wonderful here,” says Aziraphale, quietly, as if trying not to disturb the all-encompassing silence. 

Crowley hums in agreement, eyes scanning the sky. “Almost makes me hate the humans for blocking it all out.”

He’s expecting to be chastised for speaking ill of humanity (they  _ did _ save the world for them, after all), but Aziraphale just says, “Yes, quite.”

Crowley rolls onto his side, propping up on his elbow, cheek in his hand. “Come again?”

Aziraphale smiles and glances at him. “Well, humanity has its faults. We saw that with the Reign of Terror.”

“Light pollution is hardly comparable to the Reign of Terror.”

“You take things too literally, Crowley.”

“Oh,  _ I  _ take things too literally—well,  _ pfft,” _ said Crowley, rolling onto his back again. “Coming from the one who kept calling us hereditary enemies for millennia.”

“That’s just a fact!”

“Not anymore.” Crowley suppresses a smile. No, he’s  _ not _ going to get sentimental. Far too much of that lately. “See any constellations?” he asks, in an effort to redirect the conversation.

They really aren’t enemies anymore, and haven’t been for a long time, but what they are exactly remains to be seen. They’re friends—best friends—as they have been for ages. But there’s also that unknowable connection, the tug of a string pulling them together, that Crowley has felt since Eden. 

He knows, logically, that he does love Aziraphale. He’s certain that Aziraphale feels the same. The two of them don’t tend to talk about these things, not in such overt ways. They show each other in looks and gentle passing touches, or when Crowley brings a box of pastries to the shop that he knows Aziraphale will like, or when Aziraphale gifts him a rare plant he just happened to find on a convenient trip to a tropical region. They are  _ something, _ whatever that something is. Crowley isn’t sure he needs it defined. They both know how they feel about the other, and that’s good enough.

“I’ve never been very knowledgeable about the stars,” says Aziraphale. “Although I do know the Plough when I see it.” He gestures vaguely to Ursa Major.

“Good find, Aziraphale. A gold star for you.”

“Don’t tease. You show me some, then, if you’re so educated.” 

“Educated?” Crowley echoes, smiling. “That’s an understatement. I helped create some of them.”

He feels the blanket shift as Aziraphale’s head turns to look at him. “You—really?”

“Mhm. There, look,” he says, pointing, “there’s Polaris, the North Star. Big, bright one.”

“I see it. You made that?”

“No, no. But those five, over there, that’s Cassiopeia, that’s mine. Ptolomy discovered it, but not without a little help from me.” He hears Aziraphale chuckle. Defensively, he adds, “Well, I’d put so much work into it, it’d be a shame if nobody  _ found _ it!”

“I think it’s lovely, Crowley.”

“Thank you,” he says, more aggressively than necessary.

“Are there any others up there you made?” Aziraphale asks softly.

Crowley hums, twisting his neck to look around. “Ah, yep. There, see Arcturus up there?”

“Where?”

Crowley points. “So there’s Cygnus, the Summer Triangle, yeah? It’s got Vega and all that. Not mine, I was busy on a nebula around then—but if you look a little bit west from there, there’s Arcturus.”

“I don’t see it.”

Crowley scoffs. “Angel, you’re not even trying.  _ Look—” _ He shuffles closer, wiggling more snake-like than human, so that their shoulders are pressed together. “It’s over  _ there.” _

Aziraphale shifts a little. “No, I… I’m sorry, dear, it seems to be escaping me.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

The angel cranes his neck, angling his head closer to Crowley, so that their cheeks are nearly touching, and Crowley stops abruptly. He feels himself flush hot, and the stars suddenly feel very, very far away.

“Uh, angel—”

“Point again. I may spot it this time.”

Crowley does, but only because he’s at a bit of a loss for words. Aziraphale exhales happily and then surprises him again by resting his cheek on Crowley’s shoulder. “There it is,” he says. “I see it now.”

“Right. Good. That’s that, then.” Crowley drops his arm to his side, acutely aware of Aziraphale’s weight on him, a lock of his hair tickling his cheek, the warm hand that’s come to rest on Crowley’s ribs. 

“Are you alright, my dear? You seem tense.”

“‘M fine.” 

“If you’re uncomfortable, I can—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Crowley tentatively wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, holding him there. “If we, er, come back again in the winter there’ll be different stars out,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I think I’d like that,” says Aziraphale, and snuggles closer.

“Me too, angel.” Crowley smiles. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:
> 
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
My twitter is [anthonyjcrowIey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowIey)


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